Rising Storm

Chapter 15

Fireheart carried the ball of wet moss gently between his teeth. Some of the moisture had dripped out on the journey home, soaking his chest and cooling his forepaws, but there would be enough to quench Goldenflower’s and Willowpelt’s thirst until a patrol could collect more after sunset.

The Clan lay in small groups around the clearing while the sun slowly slid toward the treetops. Most of them had eaten and were quietly sharing tongues in the customary grooming session, pausing briefly between licks to greet Fireheart as he emerged from the gorse tunnel. He nodded to Runningwind, Mousefur, and Thornpaw, who were about to go out on the evening patrol.

Brindleface was getting ready to lead another group of elders to fetch water. She was gathering them together at the fallen oak, and Fireheart heard Smallear’s determined mew as he passed. “We’ll need to keep our ears pricked and our eyes sharp while we’re traveling.” The old gray tom went on: “You see that nick in my ear? I got that when I was an apprentice. An owl swooped out of nowhere. But I’ll bet my claws left a bigger scar than his!”

Fireheart felt his fur relax on his shoulders, soothed by the familiar murmurings of Clan life. The ShadowClan cats were gone, just as Cinderpelt had promised, and he had seen Graystripe. He slipped into the nursery and placed the moss gently beside Willowpelt and Goldenflower.

“Thanks, Fireheart,” meowed Willowpelt.

“There’ll be more after supper,” Fireheart promised as the two queens began to lick the precious drops of water from the clump of moss. He tried to ignore the eyes of Tigerclaw’s kit gleaming hungrily from the shadows as Goldenflower pressed the moss with her muzzle to squeeze out another mouthful.

“Brindleface is going to lead the other elders to the river once the sun has set and the woods are clear of Twolegs,” Fireheart explained.

Goldenflower licked her lips. “It’s been a while since some of them have been out in the forest after dark,” she commented.

“I think Smallear is looking forward to it,” purred Fireheart. “He was telling stories about the owl that used to hunt near Sunningrocks. Poor Halftail looked a bit nervous.”

“A little excitement will do him good,” Willowpelt remarked. “I wish I could go with them. A scrap with an owl would be just the thing to stretch my legs!”

“Do you miss being a warrior?” Fireheart asked, surprised. Willowpelt looked so comfortable lying in the nursery while her fast-growing kits scrambled over her. It hadn’t occurred to him she might hanker after her old life.

“Wouldn’t you?” Willowpelt challenged him.

“Well, yes,” stammered Fireheart. “But you have your kits.”

Willowpelt twisted her head to pick up a tiny tortoiseshell-and-white she-kit that had tumbled off her flank. She dropped it between her forepaws and gave it a lick. “Oh, yes, I have my kits,” she agreed. “But I miss running through the forest, hunting for my own prey, and patrolling our borders.” She licked the kit again and added, “I’m looking forward to taking these three out into the forest for the first time.”

“They look like they’ll make fine warriors,” Fireheart meowed. The bittersweet memory of Cloudpaw’s first expedition, when he went into the snowbound forest and came back with a vole, rose in Fireheart’s mind, and he blinked. He dipped his head to the queens and turned to leave, glancing furtively at Tigerclaw’s kit. He couldn’t help wondering what sort of warrior it would be. “Bye,” he mumbled as he squeezed out of the nursery.

He could smell the tempting scents of the fresh-kill pile wafting from nearby, but there was one more thing he had to do before he could settle down for his evening meal. He padded across the clearing to Yellowfang’s den.

The elderly medicine cat was resting in the evening sun, her fur dull and unkempt as usual. She lifted her muzzle to greet him. “Hello, Fireheart,” she rasped. “What are you doing here?”

“Looking for Cinderpelt,” answered Fireheart.

“Why? What do you want now?” Cinderpelt’s mew sounded from inside her fern nest, and her gray head popped out.

“Is that any way to greet your deputy?” Yellowfang scolded, her eyes glinting with amusement.

“It is when he disturbs my sleep,” retorted Cinderpelt, clambering out. “He seems determined I shouldn’t get any rest these days!”

Yellowfang narrowed her eyes at Fireheart. “Have you two been up to something I should know about?”

“Are you questioning your deputy?” Cinderpelt teased.

Yellowfang purred. “I know you’ve been up to something,” she meowed. “But I won’t pry. All I know is that my apprentice seems back to her old self again. Which is good, because she was no use to any cat while she was moping around like a damp mushroom!”

Fireheart was very relieved to see the two cats sparring with each other as they had done when Cinderpelt was first apprenticed to the medicine cat, before Silverstream had died. He shifted his paws awkwardly on the sun-baked ground. He had come to tell Cinderpelt that the ShadowClan cats had gone, but with Yellowfang here it was not easy.

“It’s strange,” Yellowfang growled, looking pointedly at Fireheart. “I suddenly feel like fetching another mouse from the fresh-kill pile.” Fireheart blinked gratefully at the old medicine cat. “Anything you want, Cinderpelt?” she called over her shoulder as she padded toward the tunnel. Cinderpelt shook her head. “Okay, I’ll be back in a moment,” Yellowfang rasped. “Or maybe two.”

When she had disappeared, Fireheart meowed quietly, “I checked on the ShadowClan cats. They’ve gone.”

“I told you they would,” replied Cinderpelt.

“But they didn’t go until a couple of days ago,” Fireheart added.

“It would haven’t done them any good to travel any sooner,” mewed Cinderpelt. “And I had to make sure they’d learned how to make the herb mixture before they went.”

Fireheart twitched his tail at Cinderpelt’s stubbornness, but he couldn’t bring himself to argue with her. He knew she believed with all her heart that she had done the right thing in caring for them, and part of him agreed it had been worth the risk.

“I did tell them to leave, you know,” she meowed, her tone losing some of its certainty.

“I believe you,” Fireheart agreed gently. “It was my responsibility to make sure they left, not yours.”

Cinderpelt looked up at him curiously. “How do you know when they left?”

“Graystripe told me.”

“You spoke to Graystripe? Is he okay?”

“He’s fine,” Fireheart purred. “He swims like a fish now.”

“You’re kidding!” mewed Cinderpelt. “I’d never have expected that.”

“Me neither,” Fireheart agreed, then stopped, embarrassed, when his belly growled with hunger.

“Go and eat,” Cinderpelt ordered. “You’d better hurry up before Yellowfang demolishes the entire pile.”

Fireheart leaned down and licked Cinderpelt’s ears. “See you later,” he mewed.

Yellowfang had left him the choice of squirrel or a pigeon. Fireheart took the pigeon and looked around the clearing, wondering where to eat it. He sensed Sandstorm watching him, her slender body stretched out and her tail neatly curled over her hind legs.

Fireheart felt his heart begin to beat faster. Suddenly it didn’t matter that she wasn’t tortoiseshell, and that her eyes were pale green, not amber. Fireheart looked at the pale ginger warrior, the pigeon hanging limply from his jaws, and remembered what Cinderpelt had told him: live in the present, let go of the past. He knew Spottedleaf would always remain in his heart, but he couldn’t deny the way the fur tingled along his spine at the sight of Sandstorm. He padded across the clearing to join her. As he laid his pigeon beside her and started to eat, he heard her begin to purr.

Suddenly a terrible caterwauling made Fireheart jerk up his head. Sandstorm scrambled to her paws as Mousefur and Thornpaw thundered into the clearing. Their fur was matted with blood, and Thornpaw was limping badly.

Fireheart swallowed his mouthful quickly and heaved himself up. “What happened? Where’s Runningwind?”

The other cats gathered behind him, hissing with fear, their fur bristling as they prepared for trouble.

“I don’t know. We were attacked,” panted Mousefur.

“By who?” Fireheart demanded.

Mousefur shook her head. “We couldn’t see. We were in the shadows.”

“But what about their scent?”

“Too near the Thunderpath. Couldn’t tell,” answered Thornpaw, his breath coming in short gasps.

Fireheart looked at the apprentice, who was swaying unsteadily on his paws. “Go and see Yellowfang,” he ordered. “Whitestorm!” he called to the white warrior who was already hurrying from Bluestar’s den. “I want you to come with us.” He turned to Mousefur. “Lead us to where this happened.”

Sandstorm and Dustpelt looked expectantly at Fireheart, waiting to receive orders. “You two stay here and guard the camp,” he meowed. “This might be a trap to lure our warriors away. It’s happened before.” With Bluestar on her last life, Fireheart knew he had to leave the camp well protected.

He charged out of the camp with Whitestorm at his side and Mousefur panting behind them. Together they scrambled up the ravine and raced into the forest.

Fireheart slowed his pace when he saw that Mousefur was struggling to keep up. “Quick as you can,” he urged. He knew she must be in pain after the fight, but they had to find Runningwind. He had a horrible feeling that this attack must have something to do with ShadowClan. Littlecloud and Whitethroat had been in ThunderClan territory so recently. Had they tricked him into leading his Clan into danger after all? He headed instinctively toward the Thunderpath.

“No,” called Mousefur. “It’s this way.” She brushed past him, quickening her pace, and veered toward Fourtrees. Fireheart and Whitestorm sped after her.

As they raced through the trees, Fireheart realized he had been this way before. This was the trail Littlecloud and Whitethroat had followed after Bluestar had sent them away the first time. Had a ShadowClan raiding party come through the stone tunnel under the Thunderpath?

Mousefur skidded to a halt between two towering ash trees. The Thunderpath droned in the distance, its foul stench drifting through the undergrowth. Ahead, Fireheart saw Runningwind’s lean brown body lying on the ground, ominously still. A black-and-white tom was bending over the unmoving warrior. With a jolt, Fireheart realized that it was Whitethroat.

The ShadowClan warrior’s eyes stretched wide as he saw the approaching cats. He began to back away from Runningwind, his legs stumbling with shock. “He’s dead!” he wailed.

Fireheart’s ears flattened as rage pulsed through him. Was this how ShadowClan warriors repaid another Clan’s kindness? Without stopping to see what Whitestorm and Mousefur were doing, he let out a furious screech and flung himself at Whitethroat, who shrank away, hissing. Fireheart knocked the ShadowClan warrior backward, and Whitethroat landed limply on the ground, offering no resistance as Fireheart loomed over him.

Fireheart stared down, confused, as his enemy crouched helplessly beneath him, his eyes narrowed into terrified slits. While he hesitated, Whitethroat darted away and bolted into a tangle of brambles. Fireheart chased after him, ignoring the thorns that tore at his fur. The ShadowClan warrior must be heading for the stone tunnel. He pushed onward and caught a glimpse of the tip of Whitethroat’s tail as the tom struggled out of the brambles onto the grass verge.

Fireheart emerged a moment later and saw Whitethroat poised on the edge of the Thunderpath. Fireheart hurtled toward him, expecting Whitethroat to flee to the tunnel, but Whitethroat took one look at the ThunderClan warrior and raced straight onto the Thunderpath.

Fireheart watched in horror as the terrified cat scrambled blindly across the hard gray surface. A deafening roar sounded in his ears. Fireheart shrank back, screwing up his face as the foul-smelling wind of a monster blasted his fur. When it had passed, he blinked open his eyes and shook the grit from his ear fur. A ragged shape was lying motionless on the Thunderpath. The monster had hit Whitethroat.

For a long heartbeat Fireheart froze, flooded by dreadful memories of Cinderpelt’s accident. Then he saw Whitethroat stir. Fireheart couldn’t leave any cat out there. Not even a ShadowClan enemy that had killed one of ThunderClan’s bravest warriors. He peered up and down the Thunderpath. There were no monsters in sight. He scurried across to where Whitethroat lay. The tom looked smaller than ever, his white chest glistening with blood like fire in the rays of the slowly sinking sun.

Fireheart knew that moving the cat would only hasten his death. Trembling with shock, he looked down at the warrior Cinderpelt had taken such trouble to care for, in secret from the rest of her Clan. “Why did you attack our patrol?” he whispered.

He leaned down as Whitethroat opened his mouth to speak, but the warrior’s gurgling mew was drowned as a monster roared past terrifyingly close, sending a wave of fumes and grit over the two cats. Fireheart sank his claws as well as he could into the unyielding surface and crouched closer to the ShadowClan warrior.

Whitethroat opened his mouth again, releasing a thin trickle of blood. He swallowed painfully, sending a juddering spasm the length of his body. But before he could speak, his eyes focused on a point over Fireheart’s shoulder, back toward the woods of ThunderClan territory. Fireheart watched as Whitethroat’s eyes glittered with fear before they glazed over for the last time.

He spun around to see what had filled Whitethroat’s final moments with such terror. His heart lurched when he saw who stood at the edge of the Thunderpath—the dark warrior who had prowled through so many of his dreams.

Tigerclaw.